


at night i think about you

by restless5oul



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Dorks in Love, FC Bayern München, M/M, Mild Smut, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other characters appear only briefly or are mentioned only, Thomas' POV, a little angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restless5oul/pseuds/restless5oul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there was a time when thomas didn’t know what the phrase ‘sleepless night’ meant, but now they seem to haunt him as they please, making their unwelcome appearances every so often. most nights it’s only memories, of brilliant blue eyes and dimpled grins that paw at the edges of his consciousness as he falls asleep, his unguarded mind too weak to fight them off. but some nights it’s tossing and turning, his chest filled with the all too familiar sensations of regret and longing, his mind asking why he couldn’t let this go. this night is more like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at night i think about you

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this fandom, so sorry for any inconsistencies or errors. I'm just obsessed with these two and there's not enough fic about them.  
> Also this was heavily inspired by the song At Night (I Think About You) by MNEK.  
> Enjoy!

**_03:38AM_ **

****

_Pathetic._ That’s the first thought that crosses his mind. There was a time when Thomas didn’t know what the phrase ‘sleepless night’ meant, but now they seem to haunt him as they please, making their unwelcome appearances every so often. Most nights it’s only memories, of brilliant blue eyes and dimpled grins that paw at the edges of his consciousness as he falls asleep, his unguarded mind too weak to fight them off. But some nights it’s tossing and turning, his chest filled with the all too familiar sensations of regret and longing, his mind asking why he couldn’t let this go. This night is more like that.

 

Even in his sleep deprived state he can’t escape the feeling that it’s wrong, what they did, and what he wants back. That’s why it’s only when the sun goes down that he lets himself fall prey to those wants, the darkness offering safety, the solitude making him lonely. As he stares at the flashing red numbers on the clock he briefly wonders if Robert ever thinks of him too, in the way that he does. With a crushing kind of feeling around his heart, a feeling that was more than the purely physical sort he thought he harboured for his teammate.

 

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he sits up, finally giving up on sleep, he makes his way to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, his bare feet padding on the cool wooden floor, a shiver running up his spine when the night air breezes in through an open window in the hallway. As he sips, his mind wanders. And maybe it’s by some masochistic vein of his personality that it’s the moment it all ended that he thinks of.

 

That particular training session Thomas had noticed Robert had been distracted. It wasn’t just his own attention to Robert, which was probably too keen (though he would never admit it), but it didn’t escape the notice of their other teammates.

 

“Is Robert ill or something?” Joshua had whispered in a poor stage whisper, while he did drills next to Thomas. The two of them glanced at the Polish striker, and the young German was right, he didn’t look very well. His pale skin looked gaunt, and even from a distance it was possible to see that he wore dark circles beneath his eyes. Not to mention the fact that he’d underperformed in almost every training exercise they’d done so far that day; lagging behind as they ran laps, missing relatively easy shots, and tripping over his own feet. Frowning, he felt a squeeze at his heart, a tender feeling that surprised himself slightly. But he was close friends with Robert after all, it wouldn’t be entirely unusual that he would be concerned.

 

It was that concern that led him to wait for Robert after training, earning him a few glances from his teammates as he fussed with tying his laces for a good five minutes, a poor attempt but no one said anything so he figured he had got away with it. Robert finally emerged from the showers to an almost empty dressing room, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Thomas would be lying if he said his mind didn’t wander away from his actual concerns when he saw the steam clinging to the curves of his back muscles, and the last drops of water pooling in the dip of his collarbone. But he shook his head slightly, as Robert turned from him, busying himself with pulling his clothes on.

 

“I thought we agreed we didn’t do this at work,” he deadpanned, and _god he sounds tired_ Thomas thought, sniffing at his accusation.

 

“You didn’t say that after the Wolfsburg game,” he couldn’t help but say, countering his point.

 

“That was different,” even though he couldn’t see his face, Thomas could picture the tight lipped expression on his face. And he was right, the euphoria and sweet feeling of victory made them reckless, not that he’d regretted such foolishness when he’d gotten to revel in the sound of Robert desperately trying not to make a sound, but failing to stop Thomas’ name falling from his lips.

 

“Fine, but anyway, I only wanted to ask if you were okay,” Thomas had said, standing, and finally getting Robert’s full attention. When he turned his eyebrows were raised, and he looked equally confused and surprised. He opened his mouth for a moment, and there was a strange look that flickered across his face, one that Thomas couldn’t decipher.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, turning back to his bag and pulled a t-shirt on over his head, even though he had his back to Thomas, that didn’t stop him from pulling an exasperated face and rolling his eyes.

 

“Oh come on,” he said, with a small laugh, “Where’s the Satan we all know and love?”

 

This time it was Robert’s turn to look exasperated, as he cocked an eyebrow at Thomas’ use of the fans’ nickname for him. There was a moment when he clearly considered just leaving, but what he did next surprised even Thomas, and would affect him for longer than he thought it might.

 

“I think we need to stop this,” he finally said, dropping his eyes, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. Thomas felt like a ten stone weight had been dropped into the pit of his stomach, his mouth falling open and the ability to breathe leaving him for a few moments.

 

“What?” he asked dumbly, his voice barely above a whisper, “You mean...?”

 

“The fucking, everything, whatever you want to call it,” Robert looked intense, but there was something unreadable about both his face and his voice. Thomas thought he knew Robert well. But evidently not.

 

There was something about the way he phrased it that made Thomas cringe. It made it sound unimportant, trivial almost. And judging by Robert’s attitude, maybe that was how he was supposed to feel about it. But now there was a gnawing in his stomach, as he realised that he didn’t want to lose this.

 

“But why?” Thomas asked, frowning again. Robert gave him a look that read as pure frustration, like he was trying to explain something to a difficult child. The look was cold, or that was how Thomas read it, and it stung.

 

“I’m tired,” was all Robert said.

 

And it was those words that Thomas found himself thinking on, standing in his kitchen, a cold glass in his hand. Robert had never explained what he meant, tired of sneaking around? Tired of not being honest? Tired of Thomas? So Thomas spends his sleepless nights trying to work that out. But he can never be sure.

 

Sighing and screwing his eyes shut, he tries to think not of cerulean eyes, but of something, _anything_ , else. Most of all, he tries not to think about the ache in his heart that can really only mean one thing. And if what he dares to suspect is true, then he’s only served to realise that too late.

 

There’s a moment, before he settles back down in his bed, where he stares at the phone on his bedside table, the urge to reach over and call Robert almost overwhelming. But he doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, Robert is probably sleeping.

 

**_02:41AM_ **

****

A few weeks after his last sleepless night Thomas is clumsily barging his way through his bedroom door when he catches sight of the time on the clock that sits by his bed. He groans, already feeling how gruelling the next training session will be. But his teammates had been insistent that he needed a night out, and now he was running the risk of being severely hungover in a training session – a heinous crime he was yet to commit in his football career.

 

“Come on, you look like shit,” Jerome had joked, elbowing Thomas in the ribs when he’d shot him an over-exaggerated look of offense. But there had been a part of his mind that wondered if that was true, during the day he didn’t feel much different, it was only at night that he let the worse feelings wash over him. What he had with Robert had never been something for the daylight, it had never affected his job or his day-to-day life, that had been the point. It seemed weak that missing that might be seeping into those areas of his life.

 

“Fine, fine, whatever.”

 

He’d agreed, let himself be dragged out, and excusing himself at the earliest possible time he could without seeming rude. Thomas didn’t really mind going out, nor did he mind spending time with his teammates, but he was going to be damned if he was facing the wrath of Pep Guardiola.

 

The alcohol stealing most of his coordination, he toes his shoes off without falling over, and bumps into his door on the way to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Upon returning, he begins rooting through his drawers to try find a pair of pyjamas. It seems along with his coordination, the alcohol has stolen his ability to remember where he keeps his clothes, because he ends up riffling through various piles of clothes in his quest to find something to sleep in. But something makes him stop short.

 

It’s a shirt from a match they played last season, only the name on the back isn’t his, it’s Robert’s. Like so many of the memories he holds of Robert it hits him suddenly. How they hadn’t even bothered to change out of their football strips, hurrying back to his house like there wasn’t enough time in the world.

 

How could they go from being like that; wanting each other with an insatiable desire to one of them growing tired of the other? Thomas doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol amplifying the bitterness he feels in his chest, or whether it’s just unlocking it. Freeing the crumpled shirt from the drawer, he curls one fist into the material, carrying it with him as he sits on the bed, fighting the urge to bring it to his face and inhale the familiar scent of Robert he knows it holds. There’s a moment when his eyes sting and he thinks he might cry, and he knows now, _he knows_ , but it’s too pathetic to say it. To admit that while he breezed along thinking Robert was just someone he liked to fuck, he was really falling for him. Maybe there’s some relief that if he hadn’t had ended things then Thomas might have really been fucked. But this distance between them feels so wrong that it’s only made it worse.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, reaching for the water and gulping it down, shaking his head at the awful mess he’s made for himself. His head still feels fuzzy, but he’s admitted it now, even in this state, and maybe he should feel better for it. But judging from the fact that he’s replacing his own shirt with Robert’s, acceptance has only brought with it a whole other mountain for him to climb.

 

His phone sits on the table again, and again it’s incredibly tempting to pick it up and call Robert. He’s only a few buttons away, but Thomas remembers that he doesn’t want him anymore, not like that, not even close. Huffing, he shuffles down beneath the covers, shyly burying his face in the shirt, like he’s being watched, and smelling the faint, lingering smell of whatever shampoo it is that Robert uses and the aftershave that he always wears. He looks at the clock one last time, selfishly hoping that it’s the image of his smile that haunts Robert, the same way his plagues Thomas’ mind.

 

**_00:03AM_ **

****

Thomas has been lying in his bed, fully clothed, his face buried in the pillows since six in the evening, but he hasn’t managed to sleep yet. The flight back from France hadn’t been long at all, but it seemed to last a lifetime, he had wanted nothing more than to curl up and forget all about that awful tournament. Every time the Euros came around he just couldn’t seem the pull it together, any semblance of form he had disappeared, he might have a good game, but he just couldn’t score, and that was all people took notice of. He’s tired, and he doesn’t like the sound of a summer break stretching out in front of him, just more time to dwell on his mistakes.

 

Sighing, he lifts his head, his eyes adjusting to not being squished shut and squints at the clock, he’d been hoping he might have drifted off and simply not noticed, but the time tells him otherwise. Groaning he moves to pull his shoes off, petulantly tossing them aside, rather roughly, and jumping when they bang against the doors of his wardrobes, dropping to the floor with a thud. Basti had tried to talk him out of his funk on the plane, telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that they won as a team, and they lost as one too. Thomas knows it’s true, he can’t carry the burden all on his own, but he also can’t shake the feeling that if just one of his chances in that game against France had hit the back of the net then it would be them playing Portugal in the final instead. The part of him that feels a lot younger than twenty-six years old wishes he had someone like Basti, someone steady and dependable, to talk to as he wallows in his selfish misery.

 

No he’s lying. He wants Robert, as he always does. Wanting Robert was a permanent feeling in his heart nowadays. Especially now he knew exactly why that was. But he wants him even more right now, and the upset makes him weak because this time he picks up his phone and dials, forgetting all about the late hour.

 

“Thomas?” Robert’s voice comes through distorted, but it’s undeniably his, he doesn’t sound as though he was just woken up, but he does sound tired. There’s a hint of impatience in his tone, he must know Thomas was returning from France that night, he probably thinks he’s looking for an easy fuck to help him forget all about his nightmare tournament.

 

“I miss you,” it’s not what he had intended to say, vaguely he had thought he’d say something witty, something hilarious. But instead it’s the truth that slips out. He got to see him almost everyday during the season, but it was never the same, he needs more, he wants more.

 

“You what? Thomas what are you-? Are you joking with me?” he sounds confused, like he can’t really believe what Thomas just said, like it’s so unthinkable that it might be true. And Thomas knows he’s on the verge of spilling his heart out, to a man who wasn’t even remotely interested in him anymore. But he feels so done, and there’s something inviting about the recklessness of coming clean, even if it’s only going to end in heartbreak.

 

“I made a mistake and I miss you,” he says, not having the energy for anything other than the plain truth, “I know you said you were tired, and that’s okay, and you don’t want me anymore, but I just want to say, well I need to say that I didn’t realise until you left, and I know I’m not supposed to feel like this because it’s _way_ too late, but I don’t know what else to do because I think I was falling in love with you but I didn’t know and now I just miss you.”

 

He’s rambling on, but he just wants to get it all out. In his mind he imagines that he’s pulling apart his ribcage, baring his heart for Robert to see it for all it was, and there’s something exciting about that while he’s doing it. But afterwards his confession is met with silence, and anxiety is leaking into the pit of his stomach.

 

“It’d, uh, be really nice if you could say something, even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off,” Thomas finally prompts him, unable to stand the sound of Robert’s breathing from the other end of the line.

 

“Thomas where are you?” he finally says, very slowly, like he’s taking great care with his words.

 

“Just at home,” Thomas shrugs, not understanding how that’s at all relevant.

 

“Alright I’m coming over,” Robert says quickly, and he hangs up.

 

For a few seconds Thomas just stares at the phone in his hand, frowning in confusion, wondering whether or not that whole conversation actually happened. Then his heart thuds because Robert is coming over and _holy shit_ that wasn’t what he thought would happen when he’d called him.

 

Jumping up from the bed, he knows he probably doesn’t have enough time to change, but after lying in his clothes for several hours, he should at least try to make himself look presentable. In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, he tries to smooth down his hair, and splashes cold water from the tap on his face, making himself look and feel less jetlagged. He glances down at his t-shirt, frowning at the creases, and is seriously considering putting on a new one when there’s a knock at the door. Sometimes he forgets how close by Robert lives, and he’s not ready, he doesn’t know what Robert wants to say to him, or where this is going to go, but it feels good, getting to see him like this, beyond their duties as teammates.

 

“Hey,” Thomas says, sheepishly as he opens the door to find Robert standing on the other side, looking a little out of breath, like he’d ran from the car to the front door. The look in his face is so intense that it makes the breath catch in Thomas’ throat, intensity like this from Robert is something he hasn’t felt in a while, and he’d forgotten how strong it was.

 

“You’re an actual moron Thomas Müller,” Robert says, and there’s something joking in his voice, but the look in his eyes conveys something else. It wasn’t what Thomas expected to come out of his mouth, he isn’t even sure what he means by it. He doesn’t need to ask though, in the end.

 

Robert steps over the threshold, and without breaking eye contact, he takes Thomas’ face in his hands and presses their lips together. And Thomas understands now, how could he not? When he hears the soft sigh Robert lets out, and melts under his feather light touch, the gentle kiss tells him everything he needs to know. The shock of this silent admission roots Thomas to the spot, his eyes fall shut and he wants to deepen the kiss, but he doesn’t think he can even bring himself to move, kissing Robert like this is too wonderful, it’s everything that he thought of during those sleepless nights and he doesn’t want to ruin.

 

“I wasn’t tired of you,” Robert explains when he finally pulls away from the still dazed Thomas, dropping his hands to his shoulders, the burning in his eyes has lessened, but it’s still there, “I was tired of having to be like that with you when I was in love with you. I thought if you felt the same then you’d know what I meant when I said that, but you just let me walk away.”

 

And Thomas can’t help but groan, because he’s such an idiot, an idiot for not seeing how Robert felt, and being so blind to his own feelings.

 

“I didn’t know I felt that way, I was stupid, you’re right,” he shakes his head in minor exasperation, but he’s still reliving the feeling of Robert kissing him with all the tenderness in the world. He wonders if it’s appropriate to do it again, but Robert speaks before he can close the distance between them.

 

“Nah, we were both idiots. I didn’t even tell you how I felt, I just spent weeks missing you instead, pretending that it felt okay to push you away,” Robert sounds a little embarrassed but they’ve both let their pride and ignorance get in the way, but no more.

 

“At least we know now,” Thomas supposes, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he can’t help but glance down at Robert’s own. He knows Robert has seen from the smirk that graces his face, lighting up his features.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, and when he kisses Thomas this time it’s not as gentle as before, fuelled by the fire of his own sleepless nights when he would imagine doing exactly this. Using his foot, he kicks shut the front door behind him, and wastes no time in turning Thomas around and pushing him against it. His own hands are in Robert’s hair, resting on his hip, grappling at the back of his shirt, finding their way to the curve of his neck, trying to reach every part of him, pulling him as close as he dares. He can’t breathe but he doesn’t care, not when Robert whispers his name against his lips, and especially not when his hands begin tugging at the waistband of his jeans, a teasing that begins to border on uncomfortable.

 

“A bit eager aren’t we? You’re not even going to wait until we move from the front door,” Thomas laughs when they finally break apart, both of them gasping for air. Robert shoots him a devilish grin, pressing a hot kiss to his jaw.

 

“I’ve waited long enough.”

 

For the first time in a long while, Thomas doesn’t mind that Robert is giving him yet another sleepless night.


End file.
